


of all the stars, the fairest

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Traditions, Vaginal Fingering, Winter, Worldbuilding, a vague boromir lives au because i said so, as per my usual, there are two dumbasses inside you: you are wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28558539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: “Stunning,” Eowyn says, eyes misting over with joy.This time it is Arwen who says, “Yes,” but when Eowyn turns to her, Arwen is not looking at the room.She is looking at Eowyn.And with that, the pieces of this fanciful puzzle they’ve been creating fall into place.  It’s the turning of a page, the changing of a season.  Eowyn could laugh, giddily, at how foolish they’ve both been.“Care to dance, my lady?” asks Eowyn with an outstretched hand.“There could be no greater honour.”
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel/Éowyn
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	of all the stars, the fairest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for twitter user @/maedhroses as part of the LOTR Secret Santa exchange. I hope you enjoy it! I spent many afternoons with a cup of tea writing it, especially because this pairing holds a special place in my heart. happy holidays! 
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own lotr, all rights belong to respective owners.

_ἀστὴρ οἶμαι σύ τις ἑσπέριος,_

_ἀστέρων πάντων ὀ κάλλιστος . . ._   
  


_  
You are, I think, an evening star,_

_of all the stars, the fairest._

— _sappho, fragments. translation by david a. campbell_

* * *

Though Éowyn has weathered many winters in her life, this is the first she’s spent in Minas Tirith with friends rather than family. Gondor’s celebrations are unfamiliar to her. Not bad or strange, simply different. Mōdraniht for the Eorlingas is full of mysticism and tradition: sacrifices burnt on pyres, offerings laid on altars; feral eyes after the Wild Hunt, glinting smiles during the long feast. The burning of sacred, blessed wood all night welcomes the _minni_ whose spirits walk with the living when the barriers between physical and corporeal are most liminal. As a girl, Éowyn memorized all the rites and rituals and prayers. She often was called upon to lead the ceremonies; they are some of her fondest memories: Éomer in his finery, surrounded by their countrymen as she pours libations to the spirits before they begin the Hunt. 

Éowyn shivers in the frigid air from her perch on a balcony overlooking the castle’s courtyard. Though she’s dressed still for the day, she left behind a cloak. They’re entertaining visitors from Harad this season, who have come to Gondor to make amends in the wake of the War. Aragorn is exceedingly just and merciful in his diplomacy, aided by Faramir and the queen Arwen. Together, all three are a force to be reckoned with in the political realm, an area which neither Éowyn nor the lord Boromir who sits at Aragorn’s right hand (twin rings gleaming on their fingers, a promise of their handfasting to come) have ever had much interest in. Most often when faced with situations such as these, she and Boromir sneak away to get drunk on wine together, leaving the rest to their deal-making. 

This night, however, Boromir chose to remain with Aragorn, twining their hands together. Éowyn slipped away for a breath of air. She’ll retire soon, for tomorrow is the Yule celebration in Gondor. _Yule_ , she thinks, the word sounding unfamiliar on her tongue, with a festival of lights and many decorations of evergreen, holly, and ivy but no wild hunt nor sacrifices to the gods. Though she is excited to share in this new tradition with her friends, Éowyn feels distinctly out of place in this land during this time of great solemnity to her people. 

Breath puffs out from her lips, shining and gossamer in the torchlight. As she moves to return to her rooms, she’s faced by Arwen, smiling placidly in the moonlight, unfazed by the cold. 

“A little late to be stargazing, is it not?” Arwen says, a teasing edge in her cadence that puts Éowyn at ease. A comforting familiarity has blossomed between them in the months they have spent together, for both of them are strangers in a strange land, far from their homeland. Arwen and herself spend many mornings in the castle gardens lingering over tea. Although Arwen is her queen, the need for formalities seemed never to have existed between them as they jumped right to a warm friendship. Sometimes Éowyn believes it’s because Arwen’s an Elf and has long since overcome the need for the song and dance of court politics, other times, however, Éowyn hopes it’s because Arwen favours her. 

“I simply needed a break from dinner,” Éowyn says, moving to Arwen’s side when she offers Éowyn her cloak. 

“Yes,” Arwen laughs, the clear sound of a chime, “my lord has stolen your accomplice from you.” 

Éowyn laughs too, shoulder bumping against Arwen’s, “Are they actually conducting business or merely mooning over one another?” 

“Just after you left, the chief diplomat addressed Aragorn thrice before his attention could be drawn away from Boromir. I haven’t seen his face turn so red since he was still a young man.” 

That was something Éowyn learned rather early on as well—that while Arwen is queen, it is Boromir who captured the heart of Aragorn, even evading death with an arrow in his chest. A romance of such high melodrama that Éowyn knows the court musicians will spin into tales of epic poetry. Arwen, in her own words, is Aragorn’s soul-sister, sharing a bond that goes beyond words. 

Éowyn still doesn’t know why the stone of jealousy in her chest dissolved when she learned that. 

Arwen looks luminous, shining and silvery. Her black hair, thick and strong, tumbles down her back in curls, topped with a circlet that once was her mother’s (for Boromir wears the crown of King’s consort). Éowyn digs her nails into the heel of her palm to stave off the urge to touch Arwen’s high, fair cheekbone, to reach and feel the curve of those pointed ears. 

To distract herself, she says, “You know, you still haven’t made good on your promise to tell me all of Aragorn’s childhood, my lady. Are we not partners in his torment for our amusement?”

Arwen merely laughs once more and links their arms. She curls a hand around Éowyn’s, guiding her into the castle in a slow, ambling walk. The position is natural for them. Many walks have been taken between them hand in hand. 

“All in good time, dear Éowyn,” Arwen says. 

The castle’s long halls are filled with visiting Haradrim and their guards in shining mail and stunning embroidered silks. Arwen makes pleasant conversation with all who stop them, dipping her head in acknowledgement at silent guardsmen. Éowyn giggles when not a few of them blink back, dazed. Arwen escorts her to her rooms, releasing her arm as well. Éowyn tries not to miss the warmth.

“Tomorrow,” Arwen says, “is the Yule feast, is it not? I would like to share some of my people’s customs with you if you would allow it.” 

Éowyn’s tongue sticks in her mouth, heart lodged in her throat. 

“Of course,” she manages out. 

Arwen smiles, blinding. “Wonderful. In the morning, then, I will be by to braid your hair, as my friends did for me.” Then, Arwen presses a kiss quick and soft to Éowyn’s knuckles, leaving for her own room. 

Éowyn fumbles for the doorknob, stumbles in and locks it behind her. Clutching her hand to her chest, she breathes deep through her nose in an attempt to calm her racing heart. When exactly her fondness for Arwen grew into the soft first blush of love, she could not say. Perhaps it was during her birthday, when Arwen had her favourite Rohrric foods made. Or possibly when they sat together in autumn afternoons, with Arwen reading to her. An infinite number of fond memories that slowly begin to obscure the bad ones haunting the edges of her existence. However, Éowyn contents herself with affectionate friendship as Arwen has made no indication of a similar desire. To have Arwen’s friendship is enough.

When she goes to bed that night, Éowyn dreams of long, slender fingers coming her hair, of flashing dark eyes older than mountains, of a quicksilver mind spinning webs of history and legend. 

True to her word, Arwen knocks on Éowyn’s door early in the morning with a tray laden with spicy tea from Imladris, hearty pastries that Éowyn grew up with for breakfast, and with rice porridge topped with sweet pickled vegetables that Arwen is fond of. Éowyn, drowsy-eyed, watches Arwen pry open curtains, light candles, and set up their spread on Éowyn’s spare table. Low, Arwen sings an Elvish morning song that sounds of dew on lush green grass.

Arwen looks at her rumpled in her nightgown and says, “Good morning, my lady.” 

Éowyn, of all infuriating things, blushes pink and fumbles around for her dressing gown. Pulling her hair back with a satin ribbon, she sits at the table perpendicular to Arwen who pours her a cup of tea, steaming. Then, she splashes cream and twirls a spoonful of honey into it before handing it to Éowyn. Éowyn wonders when exactly Arwen learned how Éowyn takes her tea, but accepts it gratefully nonetheless. 

“So,” Éowyn says, voice creaky with sleep, “what should I expect of Elvish Yuletide?” 

Arwen smiles serenely, ladling porridge into a small dish, and says, “Wouldn’t that spoil the surprise?” 

Éowyn huffs, yet Arwen continues smiling. “Elves, sometimes you’re as mysterious as Dwarves,” Éowyn says. 

“ _You_ , my lady, are lucky lord Thranduil did not hear that. Why, we'd both waste away during his lecture.” 

Éowyn nibbles on a pastry between sips of tea, “Then tell me a story of Yule. Something you remember fondly of. I’ll divulge one of my own.” 

Humming in thought, Arwen says, “It was Aragorn’s thirteenth year (though we called him Estel then), and I had returned to Imladris from my grandmother’s home for the season. The land there always welcomes me by fully blooming into whatever season it is: we woke to pillows of snow blanketing the earth, trees dripping with perfect icicles that never broke, a crystalline river frozen over. My people, we like to play frozen rivers and lakes. We call it ice skating. Poor Aragorn had never seen anything like it, and begged ada to let us show him. So there we five all were, taking turns holding his hands to show him how to balance. Ada had him, pulling him forward while he skated backward, when Glorfindel swept by, knocking them both off balance. Oh, they both ended up with broken wrists and were miserably cooped inside for days while the bones healed. Glorfindel avoided ada for months after, but it was worth it for the sight of my father and Aragorn toppled over each other in a heap, and managing to keep Aragorn indoors long enough that we could teach him some of the kitchen arts.” 

Éowyn laughs, equal parts intrigued and frightened by the idea of skating on ice. Éowyn stretches her legs, accidentally brushing Arwen’s foot with her own beneath the table. To her surprise, Arwen playfully slides off a slipper and kicks back. They share a conspiratorial look over their cups.

“I confess,” Éowyn says, “I thought Elves overly serious and solemn for much of my life, perhaps too dull with their histories and literature, but you and Legolas have proven otherwise. That even the Eldar make time for fun.” 

“You should see the Festival of the Stars in the Woodland realm, when drink makes tongues and minds loose,” Arwen replies, cryptic. 

“Soon enough,” Éowyn says. “But I believe I promised you a story in return. For my people, this time of year is sacred. Many of our most spiritual rituals are done during the winter months which I have always loved. In my sixteenth year, my uncle asked me to lead the prayers and offerings. I was so nervous that I hid myself away, practicing the knife cuts and poem in my bedroom until my brother found me, still covered in muck from the Hunt. He said something to me like _whatever are you doing?_ And I, standing before him while brandishing the ritual dagger, took one look at him and threw up on his shoes. I could’ve died, I was so embarrassed. Éomer cleaned us up and got us back to the Great Hall. It’s only thanks to him I was able to conduct the sacrifice that year, but he still has not let me live it down. All you must do is even mention the Mōdraniht, and he’s beside himself to embarrass me with the story no matter the company.” 

“My brothers are the same,” Arwen says, “only I’ve lived a great deal longer than you with more youthful exploits to my name for them to regale.” There was a wry twist to her lips. “I believe all older brothers hold it as a sacred tradition, if not duty.” 

After they finish their breakfast, Éowyn clears the table and dresses while Arwen lays out combs, pins, and other decorations. Silently hoping yet despairing that Arwen would watch from the corner of a sharp eye, Éowyn tries to swallow back any silly sense of modesty while dressing. Layered over her chemise, Éowyn wears a wool kirtle and a gown of rich maroon. When she turns back to Arwen, the elf _is_ watching her as she reaches to smooth out an invisible wrinkle in the fabric. Éowyn’s stomach twists sweetly.

Arwen bids her sit once more, unties the ribbon, and combs through Éowyn’s mop of curls. Her touch is expert and gentle, working through knots and snarls as tender as a sister or dear friend. ( _As a lover_ , Éowyn’s traitorous mind corrects.) 

Arwen resumes singing, this time a lay Éowyn recognizes from summer dinners with Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn and Boromir, Faramir and the Hobbits. Faramir’s been teaching her the written language of Westron and Sindarin in their spare hours, and both Merry and Frodo eagerly help as well, content to sit and read with her for long hours, correcting patiently when she stumbles. Éowyn knows the tale to be a simple children’s song about tricky, wiley rabbits and foxes outsmarting boorish, lumbering bears and elk that all must work together to survive the winter, showing the newly born Elves how to forage and preserve. 

Arwen’s fingers twist and plait, pin and place. When Arwen brushes the base of her neck, Éowyn shivers and hopes, useless, that Arwen didn’t notice or at the least, attributes it to something else. To finish, Arwen grabs a comb that sparkles delicately with silver and white gems, tucking it neatly at the crown of Éowyn’s head to hold the work in place. Satisfied with her work, Arwen shows her to the looking glass, and Éowyn gasps at the transformation: her blonde hair usually thrown back out of her face when working or loose and untamed, now sits in perfect, sculpted piles on her head, braided and twined into an ethereal cloud and ending in a tumbling waterfall down her neck. 

Touching her reflection, Éowyn says, hushed, “Is that really me?”

Arwen lays a hand on her waist, “Of course, my lady. I can do no magic or craft.”

“This _is_ magic.”

Arwen laughs, fastening on Éowyn’s most lavish cloak—black velvet, embroidered with Gondorian technique in silver thread, interlaced bead work, and trimmed in warm, life-saving fur. A birthday gift from Aragorn. 

“There,” Arwen declares, “fit for a princess of your stature. Now, come, I have many plans for us.”

Looping their arms, Arwen takes them out of the castle and down into the lower rings of Minas Tirith. The crowds part for them, some dipping heads in reverence, others, especially children, smiling bright at their presence. The city shines vibrant in layers of snow and ice, while its citizens are splotches of colour in reds, greens, blues. Ivy, evergreens, wreaths, and holly dot the landscape. Arwen leads her to a snug marketplace tucked away on a corner side street. Vendors call out their wares: flaky hand pies, lush cashmere scarves and other woolens, spices rosy and peppery. In a corner, a trio of musicians play for a few people lingering outside a tavern with cups of tea, coffee, mead. 

Arwen says, “We hold a showcase of artisans in Imladris, much like this. Each one presenting their craft for all to admire. Next year, we must journey there, so that you might see and experience it all. This year, though, I thought this would do nicely.”

It does more than nicely, reminding Éowyn of happier days when the Eorlingas would gather with traders from the south and north, sharing in food and mead and good cheer. The trades and craftspeople in Minas Tirith seem to flourish more and more, especially in recent months, now that the looming threat of war does not dangle a knife above their throats at all times. Woodworkers display finely hewed tables and chairs; metalsmiths brandish jewelry and cookware and swords; weavers layout tapestries of intricate scenes and texture. 

When Éowyn admires a necklace set with an emerald and twining gold, Arwen walks up to her side, lays a hand at her waist, and says, “Do you like it?”

Éowyn jumps. Then, nods, and says, “It looks like Rohirric craftwork. Something my mother would’ve worn.” 

“Then it is yours,” Arwen says, handing the vendor several pieces of gold. The man smiles and blushes for the sight of Arwen. His hands fumble while handing her the necklace. Brushing aside Éowyn’s hair, Arwen latches it into place. The gemstone shines on her breast, and her breath catches when Arwen reaches up to touch it. They wander up and down the market aimless and leisurely for a while longer, chatting with folks and playing games with scrappy children brave enough to pull them in.

Returning to the castle seems to take twice as long—they keep pulling each other into stores or hidden alleys. Éowyn has never before felt so carefree, she’s almost giddy with it, as though reclaiming her years lost to war. Perhaps being in the presence of an elf makes anyone feel youthful, Éowyn thinks. But when Arwen twirls her as snow begins to fall above them, she realizes she knows better.

“What else do you have planned for me?” Éowyn says as they make their way to the king’s parlor for the mid-day meal. Arwen opens her mouth to reply, but they're interrupted by Merry and Pippin running towards them, looking handsome in their armour polished and gleaming. 

The little ones are quite insistent that at least one meal a day is taken with all of them together, to enjoy one another’s company and, Éowyn suspects, to try and speed up the healing of Frodo and Sam in particular from the wastes of Mordor. It’s the reason they’ve lingered so long in Minas Tirith. Their group is in high spirits, seated around the table set aside for them. Merry to her left, Arwen to her right. Aragorn and Faramir both appear frazzled with the running of the kingdom and organizing guests; Boromir, drowsy-eyed, rests his head on Aragorn’s shoulder. 

“Remind to never offer to organize the Yule celebration again, love,” he says. “The household staff are running me ragged.” 

“Duly noted,” Aragorn replies, flat. He and Faramir exchange a Look that has Arwen smothering a laugh into her hand. 

“Should’ve asked Frodo,” Pippin says, “Bilbo always had him running about during party planning. He’s right good at delegating and what have you.” 

Frodo smiles bashfully, twining a hand with Sam, says, “I’d need Sam right beside me. He’s the muscle, you see.”

Sam, pink-eared and quite insistent, stutters, “Oh, I don’t know about that—”

“Yes, remember when he hoisted that entire keg over his shoulder a few summers ago?” Merry says. “We had to call Frodo’s name four times to get his attention.

Both Frodo and Sam blush hotly at this. Something unknots in Éowyn’s chest.

After they’ve finished their meal, the menfolk return to their duties (Éowyn blows a sarcastic kiss in Boromir’s direction like when they were youths) alongside Legolas and Gimli. 

“Gentlemen,” Arwen says, “would you like to join myself and Éowyn for a time? I’m going to show her how to bake a traditional bread for the dinner tonight.” This is directed in particular at Sam.

They light up, clamouring over themselves to follow her into the kitchens. Éowyn spares a thought that they might be in the way of the cooks hard at work, but Arwen directs them to a reserved corner with one table of Man height, another of adequate Hobbit height. Arwen, patient and kind as only an elf can be, instructs them on both the history and making of a dumpling she calls _uiyáva_. Sam takes to it exceptionally well, forming the potato dough with his sturdy hands, gently showing Merry and Pippin how to wrap the plum in the center.

Éowyn struggles a bit, trying to get the dough to form. 

“Here, allow me,” Arwen says, reaching to cup Éowyn’s hands in her own. Breath, and things like it, are stolen from her. So close, Éowyn smells the dewey perfume Arwen favours. Arwen’s hands are impossibly soft around hers as they knead together.

When one of the maids calls Arwen’s attention away from their group for a moment, Éowyn busies herself turning the dough into flat discs and wrapping them around plums.

Merry looks up at her through his glasses, face inscrutable, before saying, “I think the Queen is in love with you.” And really. Bless Hobbits who have no time for the impracticalities of Men. 

Despite Frodo and Sam hissing at him to quiet down, Merry continues, “I’ve thought so for a long while. She’s never so forward with anyone else besides you. She looks at you like there’s nobody else in the room. And both of you deserve to be happy.” 

Her eyes mist over, and her lip trembles. Merry’s resolve, though, girds her own courage. She has spent far too long alone—and content in that solitude. It was safe. But here in the White City with friends and Evil vanquished, there no longer is need to keep up walls around her heart. The Hobbits had stolen their way past her fortress and made themselves at home in her affections. But so has Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli. Boromir and Faramir, she knew as youths when they would visit with their father, but without her knowledge, they all had a hand in tearing down the walls and bringing her to the warmth. The one who lit the hearth, however, was Arwen. 

The realization is quiet like the call of a robin in the forest. 

“I’ll speak to her tonight,” Éowyn declares, though it comes out as a whisper.

Merry nods, pushing his glasses up with his shoulder, given that his hands are covered in flour. Arwen returns from her task, delighted to see they’ve just about finished. The set the dumplings in cast iron pots, nestled in hot coals to steam. 

While they wait, Sam makes them steaming cups of hot chocolate, thick with Frodo by his side. They warm their feet by the hearth and listen to Arwen tell stories of Elven Yuletide in Imladris, Mirkwood when it was still Greenwood, Lothlorien. Éowyn’s surprised when the subject turns to her, and both the Hobbits and Arwen sit enraptured as she speaks about the mysticism and reverence of Solstice in Rohan. She even spooks them with tales of _draugar_ who haunt the earth during this time of year. Arwen spoons honey onto the dumplings when they’re fresh and hot, and Éowyn burns her fingertips tearing into one. 

They’re still cavorting in the kitchens when people begin to arrive at the castle for the feast. There are emissaries from Rohan and Gondor’s outerlying fiefs; diplomats from the various Elven king and queendoms—Arwen and Legolas’s kin; dwarves from the northern hills; nobles from Harad. It’s a barrage of colour and heraldry set against the backdrop of Minas Tirith’s palette of greys and whites. That’s their cue to leave and dress for the evening’s festivities.

“Follow me,” Arwen says cryptically. She leads Éowyn to her own rooms, seating her on an armchair before rummaging through her wardrobe. “I had this set aside for you several months ago as a token of our friendship.” She returns with a gown that flows like water in her hands. 

“Oh, Arwen,” Éowyn breathes, gingerly touching it, “it is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever had the privilege to see.” It’s silk, a deep, rich forest green—the green of Meduseld, run through with shimmering metallic thread and trimmed with gold embroidery. There are two sets of sleeves: one cut close to the arm, the other split at the elbow and draping long so as to leave the hands free. The worth of the trimming alone could purchase half of her family’s most-prized horses.

“It will look even more beautiful when worn,” Arwen replies. “When filled with life. Would you allow me to dress you?”

Éowyn’s stomach turns over itself. “I can not accept this.”

“It is a _gift_ ,” Arwen says, “it has nothing to do with worthiness. It would gladden my heart to see you at tonight’s feast in it, that is all I ask for in return.” Determination and something Éowyn cannot bring herself to name sets Arwen’s mouth. 

“Alright,” Éowyn concedes, “but only if you allow me the same privilege of dressing you.” 

Arwen says nothing, merely sets the gown aside and ever-so-gently begins to remove Éowyn’s day wear, taking care to fold each piece precisely. When left in her chemise and stockings, Arwen slips the gown over her head, smoothing away wrinkles and contemptuous folds. At last, she fastens a girdle around Éowyn’s waist, also of gold but the extraordinary detail is distinctly Elven. Arwen brushes her fingers along it.

“This was my mothers. I know she would be glad to see it on such a worthy woman,” she says. 

“Thank you,” Éowyn says, undressing and redressing Arwen. “I have told you that I lost my mother as well. It is no easy thing to part with something of hers, even if only temporary.” She trembles with nerves as she laces the gown shut. 

Turning, Arwen lays a hand on Éowyn’s cheek, cupping her jaw. It feels as though Éowyn’s face was crafted specially for Arwen to hold. If she were to close her eyes, she knows that she would be able to feel every whorl on every fingertip. She continues to tremble as she gingerly caresses Arwen’s arms.

“I am glad our paths have led us to one another,” Arwen says. 

“Yes.” 

Arwen gazes at her with those eyes as old as time itself, the ones that glint with starlight, the ones that make Éowyn want to render herself open—spill her essence across the floor.

Éowyn opens her mouth to speak, but Arwen interrupts, “We should leave for the feast. We will be missed.” 

“Yes,” repeats Éowyn, cringing internally at her own insipidness though something unsaid lies in Arwen’s voice.

When they enter the Great Hall, Éowyn's restless gaze turns ‘round and ‘round the room filled with beauty and small wonders. Greenery, fine burgundy linens, crystal goblets enchant the eye everywhere one turns. Twists of holly, berries, ivy, and evergreen line tables, weave in between spidling white candles. Various cloth and jewels from across Middle Earth turn the room into a riot of colour while foods are elegantly heaped on trays and cups filled with ale, wine, mead. The center of the room has been cleared for dancing, with court musicians tuning up at the foot of the stairs which lead to the throne. While Aragorn and Boromir speak with councilors, the Hobbits are dancing, teaching Shire-styles to some of the Haradrim. 

“Stunning,” Éowyn says, eyes misting over with pure, indescribable joy.

This time it is Arwen who says, “Yes,” but when Éowyn turns to her, Arwen is not looking at the room.

She is looking at Éowyn. 

And with that, the pieces of this fanciful puzzle they’ve been creating fall into place. It’s the turning of a page, the changing of a season. Éowyn could laugh, giddily, at how foolish they’ve both been. 

Emboldened, Éowyn asks, “Care to dance, my lady?” with an outstretched hand.

“There could be no greater honour.” 

They are swept up in the music and good cheer, and Éowyn forgets about loneliness, about hardship. Here she is a woman, dancing with an Elf and halflings, in the Great Hall of Minas Tirith. Here, she is Éowyn. Wholly.

Hours pass by in a pleasant haze of wine and laughter. In all that time, Arwen never leaves her side. Éowyn is dizzy on the loveliness of her company and the rightness of this time, this space. Late into the night, when the two of them are seated with Aragorn, Boromir, and Faramir making small talk, Arwen slips her hand into Éowyn’s. Leaning in close, she whispers, “Might we speak alone for a moment?” There is nothing Éowyn would do but nod her assent.

Arwen tugs her out into a hidden alcove, tucked behind hidden velvet curtains where the moonlight streams in through a round, stained glass window, lying splintered on the floor. Strains of the party linger long in their ears, and Éowyn recalls exactly how much she wants to trace the whirls of Arwen’s, to be permitted to touch their pointed tips. Minutes pass, or perhaps seconds only, but in that time, they walk closer to one another until they are but a hairsbreadth apart. 

Gathering her courage, Éowyn says, “I love you, my lady. I have for many moons now. I did not dare to speak of it, lest I mistake your friendship for love. But today has made certain my own feelings, and I—” she stumbles over her words, “Still, I must ask: could you love me too?”

Arwen holds both of Éowyn’s hands between hers, and says, “Dear Éowyn, you have captivated my heart unlike any other.”

Éowyn’s heart gives a great, painful lurch. “Truly?” she whispers, voice barely above a croak.

Barest brush of lips to cheek, Arwen says, “Truly. I would give you all of me, if you will take it. I love you.” 

Éowyn leans forward and kisses her sound and firm. Arwen huffs a breath, a tiny noise in the back of her throat, and Éowyn is lost in the wonder of her. Sliding an arm around Arwen’s waist, Éowyn brings them flush together so naught an inch of space remains between. Arwen cups Éowyn’s face as she did earlier, but this time with both hands and tilts her head to deepen the kiss. There’s a brief moment of noses knocking, of tripping on skirts, before fate aligns in their favour. 

Arwen, Éowyn thinks distantly, tastes of starlight and wine. Breaking apart, their mouths rest a scarcely an inch apart, and Éowyn says, “It will be the greatest honour of my life to love and honour you.” 

“Let us not waste another moment,” Arwen says, pulling her back for another kiss. This one more heated with desperation flickering at the edges. Éowyn walks them to the window ledge, deeply set into the castle wall. In a swift movement, Éowyn pushes Arwen up and onto the seat, insinuating herself between Arwen’s legs. Arwen gasps _oh_ , comes to clutch Éowyn’s arms while she sweeps Arwen’s hair back from her shoulders and kisses the spot behind her ear. There’s a need to run her hands along every part of Arwen she can reach, to feel gooseflesh ripple across her arms, to knead the soft skin of her hips, so strong it makes her head spin. Trailing her lips along the lines of Arwen’s ear, Éowyn sighs, content to satisfy the longing. 

Raucous laughter reaches them from the Great Hall, startling them apart. Arwen laughs, resting her forehead against Éowyn’s shoulder. 

“I feel like an elfling again,” she says between giggles, “sneaking about behind my father’s back. Let us retire, where we won’t be disturbed.” 

They stumble over one another, sneaking kisses against dusty tapestries of Aragorn’s ancestors. When they reach Éowyn’s room, Éowyn holds Arwen close and says, “Feeling like an elfling? I forgot you’re soon to be old and grey.” 

Arwen, if it could be said that Arwen was capable of such a thing, smirks, cornering Éowyn against her own bedroom door. Leaning in close, Arwen says, “Yes, and I am more learned in the ways of passion than you, for I’ve had a great deal more practice.”

Arwen captures her mouth, licking her way behind Éowyn’s teeth and swirls. Éowyn caresses the lines of Arwen’s body, the lovely curves that had danced through her dreams, still hidden beneath silk and wool. Arwen presses her thumbs against Éowyn’s jaw to hold her face still. Nose to temple, Arwen inhales her scent, gusting out a sigh that leaves Éowyn shuddering. Fumbling behind, Éowyn manages to get the door open and ushers both of them in. 

After locking the door, Éowyn turns and is struck by the fire glowing in Arwen’s eyes—flames that could’ve wrought down Mordor itself, Éowyn’s certain. 

“In all my years,” Arwen says, walking towards Éowyn and unlacing her dress, “never have I known one as fair as you, sweet daughter of Rohan.” Éowyn’s lovely gown falls in a puddle about her feet, followed swiftly by her chemise and stockings. Pondering a moment on the absurdity of all the dressing and undressing they’ve done this day, laughs quietly into Arwen’s throat while kissing and sucking the curve of it. Laughter turns to wordless moans when Arwen continues, “I could sit and ponder the curve of your ankle, the rise of your breast, the curl of your hair until the world crumbles around us.” Arwen kneels before her, mouthing along her belly, her thighs, her breastbone. 

Whether it was the cool air, the fire in the hearth, or Arwen’s ministrations, Éowyn did not know, but she shivers. Pulling her back to her feet, she undresses Arwen, unraveling her piece by piece ‘till nothing remains but their barest selves. Speech dies on her tongue at the sight. All Éowyn wants to do is fall to her knees in supplication, put her mouth to Arwen and worship at her altar. Arwen must sense her overwhelm, and holds her close. For a moment, they share that tender embrace. Then, Éowyn’s pulse thunders in her ears when Arwen grips the scruff of her neck and nips at the top of her shoulder. 

“Lie back,” Arwen commands, and Éowyn scrambles to obey. She draws the bed curtains open, splays herself against pillow and blanket, fighting the urge to hide herself. Arwen kneels on the bed, drags a hand along the length of Éowyn’s body. Her keen eyes flicker between Éowyn’s face and body, reading every minute twitch for places that will make Éowyn keen. She teases soft, ticklish sides, digs fingers into the swell of belly, scratches nails down quivering arm.

Arwen spreads Éowyn’s long legs, ghosting along her inner thighs. Éowyn twists into it, longing for a more firm hand but unable to ask for such a thing. Though Arwen must see it in her face, because she smiles and lowers her mouth to Éowyn’s collarbones to bite and suck a blooming mark. Éowyn curls up against her, clutching at her shoulder blades. She moans, soft, when Arwen moves lower, sucking her breasts. At the same time, Arwen trails a long finger up Éowyn’s quim, circling around her clit. Arousal pools sweet and low in her belly, pulsing out to the tips of her toes. Rocking her hips up, her nails dig in when Arwen slips a finger inside. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Éowyn says to the air. Arwen has set about suckling at her teats harder, glancing up at Éowyn through lowered, dark lashes. Éowyn turns onto her side, throwing a leg across Arwen’s hips, so that Arwen might have a better angle. In thanks, Arwen slips in another finger, then ever so carefully, curls them forward in a building rhythm. 

“Is that good?” Arwen asks, coy, around her mouthful. “Is this what you desire? I know Men are often unwilling to wait for their pleasure.” She presses her thumb against Éowyn’s clit, rubs it in quick, short circles, nips at her breast.

“Not all of us have long lives with which to drag these matters out,” Éowyn retorts, voice betrayingly shaky. Arwen bites a mark against her breastbone, sucking until it mottles purple-blue. 

There’s a challenge in Arwen’s eye as she releases Éowyn’s breast and shoves her flat to the mattress with a hand to her chest. Éowyn feels like a feast: sun-warmed plums and peaches plucked ripe as skillful hands pry her open, letting the juice roll down wrists and forearms. Arwen’s wrist twists in a cork-screw motion that sends sparks skittering along Éowyn’s limbs. Dimly, Éowyn realizes Arwen is speaking to her: beautiful, lyrical, poetic praises _I can feel you here, wet and gorgeous, Éowyn_ — and _Could you come like this? From my touch alone?—_

Éowyn nods, all she can manage, chanting, _yes yes, anything for you, love_.

Arwen straddles her leg, fucks her fingers into Éowyn deep, faster, fast fast _fast_. Éowyn’s head tosses side to side as she writhes. Her toes curl into the sheets. The slick sound of Arwen’s fingers inside her echoes throughout her room. Éowyn grabs Arwen’s hips, urging her to rock against Éowyn’s thigh. Arwen does as bid, and Éowyn can feel the searing wetness of her. Elves run cooler to the touch than Men, but here, Arwen is hot as Rohan’s open fields in mid-summer. Piles of curls at the apex of her thighs, lightly dusting along down her legs, scratch ever-so-pleasantly. 

As Arwen drives in, clever and practiced, Éowyn’s back arches clear off the bed. Arwen circles and swivels her hips, and Éowyn gasps at the _flex flex flex_ of her cunt, the slippery kiss promised there. Stars above, she wants to swallow Arwen down, have her taste linger long in the back of her throat.

“I want my mouth on you,” Éowyn manages. 

“If you can still talk,” Arwen says, dark and eyes flashing, “then I have not yet finished my work.” Her fingers slow, pull out, and trace the lines of Éowyn’s outer cunt. Massaging, pinching, stroking to figure out all that makes Éowyn squirm, breathless and enchanted. Need coils up in her belly, winding tighter and tighter. Arwen gathers up her slick and sucks it off, the sight of which makes Éowyn’s head spin. 

Bare and beloved, Éowyn’s hips kick forward seeking friction and pressure, her cunt throbbing. Arwen slides three fingers inside, swirling in circles, presses the heel of her hand to Éowyn’s clit. Altogether, the pleasure falls over her in waves, drowning her in needy, dizzy sensation. When she comes, her head falls back, legs spasming, and she whimpers quiet and desperate. Arwen fucks her through it, petting her sweaty hair back from her forehead. 

“That’s it,” Arwen says, “more beautiful than starlight. You are the sun, from which all living things grow. I am a flower in the garden, drawn to your warmth.” 

A tear slips from one eye, then the other. Éowyn pulls Arwen down and kisses her. Kisses her with every fiber of her soul. 

After catching her breath, Éowyn urges Arwen to lay flat and insinuates herself between her legs. From this angle, Arwen is magnificent. A righteous river in Éowyn’s bed—all long legs, dips and valleys, peaks and ridges. She raises Arwen’s leg and kisses the inside of her knee. Trailing her lips down, Éowyn mouths the knob of her ankle, kisses her instep, breathes across the tender toes. Satisfied, she moves back up to the tender inner thighs, kissing, nipping, suckling at the sensitive skin. Ever so minutely, Arwen quivers beneath her touch. She shuffles her weight, angling with her body for Éowyn to put her mouth to her. 

Grinning, Éowyn says, “Are you in need of something, my lady?”

“I would have you taste me,” Arwen replies, a hint of a huff in it, edging on breathless. “Ply me open with your mouth.” 

Éowyn massages Arwen’s outer cunt, as Arwen did for her, yet light and teasing. Just enough to make her whine and rock down onto her fingers. 

“I thought elves had infinite time and patience to wait for their pleasure?” Éowyn says, echoing Arwen’s earlier taunt. 

“I have spent far too long among Men,” Arwen says, cupping her face, “and I am too far gone. Please, my love.” 

“As you wish.”

Éowyn sucks a bruising mark into Arwen’s hipbone before moving down to her quim. Parting her open, Éowyn stars slow, trailing the tip of her tongue in languid licks that circle the edge of her clit. 

“Mh, _yes_ ,” Arwen moans from above her, hands finding Éowyn’s hair and neck and shoulders. “Yes, beautiful. _Oh—_ ”

Arwen’s so wet her cunt glistens in the firelight, so Éowyn continues using her tongue, lapping up the musky taste of her, heady. When she swallows, when she breathes, it lingers in the back of her throat. Teasing the edge of her hole before dipping inside, flickering against her clit. Arwen thrusts against her face, hips moving of their own accord. With her left hand, Éowyn pins her flat, to which Arwen whimpers, sweet and high. Her thumb massages the hollow of her hip bone. Putting her mouth to her clit, Éowyn sucks at it. Arwen’s back arches, squirming with breathy pleads for _more, by the stars, more_. 

Their eyes meet. Arwen’s brows knit, and her mouth drops open in wordless want. Heat, both at Arwen’s pleasure and the power of having her at her fingertips, drips slow and shivery down her spine, making her moan against Arwen’s cunt. The vibrations send Arwen writhing against the bed clothes, clenching them in her fists.

Pausing, she says, “Would you have me use my fingers?”

Arwen nods. While one hand continues to grip Éowyn, her other is pinching her nipple. The sight alone turns Éowyn’s stomach to water. 

Two fingers easily slide inside Arwen who’s loose and slick, the clutch of her body sending Éowyn’s mind spinning with need. Curling her fingers, Éowyn kneads the inside of her while returning her tongue to her cunt. She swirls around her clit, interspersing kisses and sucks to the area surrounding. Arwen’s panting rises, small whines bubbling forth. Tiny noises magnified in the hallowed air around them. 

_Ah— ah— ah—_

—and Éowyn slips her tongue in alongside her fingers and presses her thumb to her clit, and Arwen is gone. 

There is a small gush of liquid onto her face which soaks her chin, throat, and chest. It seems to embarrass Arwen, for her face colours, but her body quakes and twitches as Éowyn fucks her through her release. The wetness spurs Éowyn on, delirious and greedy to wring more pleasure from Arwen, only woken from her reverie when Arwen weakly pushes her away.

“N-no more,” Arwen says, “I’m spent. I cannot take any more.” Her voice is husky and wrecked. Éowyn could listen to it for eternity.

After Éowyn rises and lays next to Arwen, she draws her to her chest. Arwen’s eyes fall shut, breath still coming uneven. Arwen’s arms wrap around her and rub soothing circles into her lower back.

“I have been lost to you since the moment I first laid eyes on you,” Éowyn says. She idly plays with Arwen’s sweat-tousled hair. “That we both have made it out of the darkness alive and hale—” her voice cracks, “I am ready for all the joys we are yet to experience.”

“Yes,” Arwen says. Her foot wiggles between Éowyn’s calves. “Of all those I have loved in my life, you shine the brightest.”

Outside her bedroom window, stars fall out of sight while burdened clouds roll in. Snow falls heavier, pillowy on Minas Tirith’s streets. 

“A snowfall on Yule,” Arwen says, “a most fortunate omen.”

“Indeed?”

Arwen slips from her arms long enough to grab a cloth and clean them both before drawing the heavy quilts over them. 

“To my people it means that the spring will be all the more beautiful. And you, dearest Éowyn, will be the most beautiful blossom of all.” 

They share one last tender kiss before drifting off to sleep, hand in hand and curled around each other. Two creatures who wandered through the doom of the End of All Things only to find one another. It is the promise of hope, of light, and of healing. For Éowyn, she thinks, the winters will never again be so harsh and unforgiving, with the soft love of Arwen and her friends to hold her. 

**Author's Note:**

> source for sappho:
> 
> Sappho & Alcaeus. _Greek Lyric, Volume I: Sappho and Alcaeus._ Translated by David A. Campbell. Cambridge, MA: Harvard U Press, 1982.


End file.
